


Night into Day

by twitchbell



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchbell/pseuds/twitchbell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set before the events chronicled in 'The Lord of the Rings'. Alone in a strange land, Aragorn is in desperate need of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night into Day

Aragorn ran.

Sheer will power alone kept him moving, giving him the strength to fight back cramp and force weak muscles to fresh exertion. How long had it been since he was free to run like this? Memories of distant days of boyhood surfaced momentarily. They'd run then, he and his foster brothers.  Long before Aragorn had known his true name and lineage, they'd raced and hunted each other through the hidden valley of Imladris, and he knew now that the Half-elven twins were already imparting the skills that might one day help keep him alive.

So much for the past.   He was weak now and the rain handicapped him, a solid grey wall beating down, choking breathing.  Slipping, he almost fell and caught himself just in time.  He'd seen what happened to those who tried to escape from the Corsairs.  It wasn't, it couldn't be his destiny to die like that, in ignominy and in pain, so far from ...

He stumbled almost blindly round a corner of the deserted street.  Where was he running _to_?  This wasn't his world.  There was no one here who had reason to lift a finger to help him.  And he couldn't run forever; he had to find a place in which to hide, in which to lie low until the hunt was called off.  Oh yes, the Corsairs would search for him – perhaps were doing so even now – but they wouldn't delay long to do so.  Corsairs never rested anywhere any length of time.  In that stark fact lay what little hope he possessed.

He slipped again and, unable to save himself this time, fell heavily. The downpour had stirred the dusty street into a sea of mud and the rain battered down on him as he lay struggling for breath. The weather had seemed such a blessing at first - for who would be out of doors at night in such a storm to see him? - but while it had masked Aragorn's flight for freedom, it had also effectively sapped what remaining strength he had. He dragged himself onto his knees as lightning etched the sky in blinding brilliance above his head and thunder rumbled, low and menacing, seconds later. Wearily he looked up, and saw that he was being watched.

The height of the observer confused him for a moment. Then the figure spoke and he realised it was a child, heavily cloaked against the weather. The words obviously formed a question but the language was one unknown to him so he could only stare up dumbly at the child, blinking back the rain from his eyes.

The child repeated its question and then half turned as a voice sounded from across the street. The child hesitated, looking back at Aragorn, and then caught hold of his arm, trying to drag him forwards whilst at the same time indicating impatiently towards the half-open door; a thin light trickled out, warm and inviting when placed against the storm. Desperate for the sanctuary it represented, Aragorn forced himself to his feet and let the child tug him, limping, towards it.

A woman turned at their entrance, looking up from the range where she was cooking and then snapping off an exclamation of shock. She fired a rapid question at the child, who shrugged and threw back the hood of his cloak. He was a boy, perhaps seven years old, rather pale in face and solemn featured. The woman shot her gaze back to Aragorn and there was no sympathy, only hostility in her expression as he swayed against the door. Any minute now, he realised numbly, she would run out into the street, raise the neighbours, and summon assistance. And it wouldn't take them long to realise what he was, where he was running from.

Yet how could he blame her if she was to take fright and cry for help? He was well aware of how he must appear to her, and why should she want to give shelter to a half-naked, storm-soaked stranger? In the boy's eyes he had been just another human creature in need of refuge; he doubted whether the woman would view him so charitably. No sanctuary, then, and no hope unless ...

Aragorn raised his head and met her eyes with his own. Knowing that she couldn't understand him, he nonetheless spoke slowly to her; maybe the tone in which he couched his words would serve to reassure. A slim chance, maybe, but when his freedom and very life hung by a thread it was all he had to hold onto.

"I mean you no harm," he said carefully, trying to keep his voice as soft and soothing as he could.

Her eyes widened then, and her mouth dropped slightly open. She stood quite still, her gaze never leaving his face. And then she answered him in his own tongue.

"Who are you? What do you want?" The accent was strange, the voice a little hesitant as if the words were newly pulled from memory. Amazed, he answered the second query first.

"Shelter, for a little while." His gaze slid beyond her to the range where the fire burned bright through the open door The boy had already crossed over to it and stood there, warming his hands.

"You're from Oversea," the woman said.

Aragorn nodded silently, unwilling to move whilst she watched him like that. He could see that she was tense and unnerved; what her next actions would be he did not dare to guess, or hope.

"Close the door," she said at last.

It was with relief that he obeyed that instruction, dropping the bar into place. The longer the door had remained ajar the more chance there was that he would be seen by a passer-by, or that a neighbour would become curious and investigate.

The woman gestured to the fire. "Come closer," she said. Slowly he did so, the flames flickering like a mirage in front of him so that for a moment he doubted he even had the energy to cross the room. And then he was there, sinking to his knees before the heat, shaking with cold and reaction and unsure where he would find the strength to move again.

The woman crossed the room behind him, picked up a blanket from a pallet bed in the corner and draped it across his shoulders. He shrank from the rough heavy feel of it - warm though it was - and held out his hands to the fire. How glorious the heat seemed to him after long months of captivity; dark, airless days and dark, cold nights that he would give much to banish forever from his mind.

The woman glanced at the marks on his wrists. "You're an escaped slave, then," she said.

That stung. He lifted his head. "I'm a free man," he returned coldly. "I am no one's slave."

She nodded, accepting the rebuke calmly enough. "But the Corsairs took you all the same, didn't they?" He felt her hands on his shoulders, rubbing him gently with the blanket, and winced; some of the injuries he bore were too recent to take kindly to such treatment. It was less than two days since he'd last been beaten; less than two days since they'd murdered Harath. He flinched away from the rawness of the memory.

"They hurt you?" the woman queried, her hands stilled. The light in the house was poor and no doubt the mud had concealed much from her eyes. She let the blanket slip away and then sucked in her breath sharply. "I see," she said. "I will tend this for you.

Aragorn made no protest. He closed his eyes, listening to her quiet movements as she fetched clean linen, water and unguent. The sounds and scents evoked memories of other times, other places. Of working beside his foster-father as he tended the sick and wounded, patiently instructing Aragorn in the lore and skill of healing as he did so.  And of his mother, soothing his small childhood mishaps with her own hands.  He remembered her grace and gentleness, and her sadness, her eyes perpetually bruised by a pain that could not be healed. He knew that she loved him, but no child could ever compensate for the loss of his father. It had been a while before he had truly understood and accepted that fact, for a time living uneasily with the vague guilt that he was in some way failing her, that he should be able to ease her sorrow.

"My name is Kitha," the woman said, kneeling beside him. He tensed for the first sting of the water, welcoming it when it came; he'd seen too many wounds festering untreated, fly-tormented and maggot-ridden. He'd been luckier than some in that respect.

"My son is named Ardamir," she continued. "And you?"

"Harath," he said softly, thinking as he said it of how his friend must have been before the Corsairs took him and destroyed him: stout and good-humoured, wise in his own world and harmlessly intent on his own business.  Harath would not have grudged him use of his name now he no longer had any need for it.

"Ardamir's father cane from Oversea," Kitha said. "A voyager.  He called himself Baranthur. His ship was wrecked. I looked after him for a time and he taught me your language. " She hesitated, and then continued levelly, "He was taken by the Corsairs."

Chance meeting it may have seemed that he should encounter the one person in all that land who both understood and had reason to help him, but Aragorn had been taught well enough to know that seeming chance could hide design. He had, perhaps, been meant to come here.

Kitha continued to bathe his wounds and for a time the pain of her ministrations, gentle though she tried to be, drove out weariness and his gaze strayed to the pan that rested above the range, registering the aroma of cooking. She noticed his interest and paused a moment to fetch a bowl and then spoon a small amount of bubbling broth into it. At a word from her, Ardamir fetched bread - fresh-baked, the crust crisp and the centre soft and yielding - and then a mug of water.

"Poor enough fare," said Kitha, "But no doubt an improvement on what you've become used to."

It was. Aragorn ate and drank as slowly as he could, forcing self-control. To him it represented a feast; he found he couldn't remember clearly the last time he'd eaten so well. Corsairs expended a minimum of resources on their captives - the weak went under and were easily replaced. Harath had not been strong.

When he'd finished and Kitha had soothed a cool salve over his torn flesh, she rose, gesturing her son - still silent and watchful - into a small room adjoining the main living area.  Then, drawing a bowl of fresh water from a pump by the door, she placed it beside Aragorn with fresh towelling

"I will share Ardamir's bed," she said. "You may take mine." She indicated the pallet bed in the corner of the room. "You may wash first, if you wish."

He did wish, and not merely because he did not want to abuse her hospitality. "Thank you," he said.

She paused then, looking down at him with an expression he felt too exhausted to attempt to define, and with one hand gently touched his face before retreating quietly and closing the door behind her.

The food and drink, and rest, had served to restore something of Aragorn's strength and when she'd gone he rose slowly to his feet stripping off the remains of the soiled, torn garment that was all he had left and bathing thoroughly. He was newly aware that outside the storm had not abated; the rain still pe1ted down with persistent leaden ferocity. It echoed in his mind as he scrubbed every inch that Kitha had not already bathed, as if mere water could wash away the taint of the past. It could not, he knew that, but it helped a little.

He rubbed himself dry and then, tired beyond belief, stumbled into the bed, wrapping the blankets carefully round him and seeking the oblivion of sleep.

........

   
_Keeping time to the beat of a drum. Back bent over oars, chains chafing wrists and ankles, rowing to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Sanity and strength and dignity whittled away piece by piece by lack of food and water, by the heat, by the stench, until all he had left to hold onto against despair was blinding, burning anger._

_And Harath, once stout, his flesh now hanging loosely on him, keeping cheerful against all reason but weakening now, gradually fading because in spite of his bulk, or maybe because of it, he had never been strong._

_"Much more of this will be the end of me, my friend," Harath spoke, sweating now as he strained over the oars. "My head is spinning circles."_

_ "The wind will change soon. We'll rest then - maybe there'll be food and water." Aragorn heard his voice trying to reassure, much as the older man had rallied him during those first few dreadful weeks, but his eyes betrayed his anxiety._

_"Food! Not enough to feed a flea. I tell you, I can't keep on like this..." And Harath wasn't making light of their situation now. His eyes held a haunted, frightened expression._

_"It'll end s-" Aragorn's answer this time was cut off by the approach of the two Corsair overseers, always quick to react to any hint of slackening. A long whip snaked about both their shoulders. Nothing new. Aragorn bore it in silence but this time Harath fell forward onto the oars, face ashen, lips blue and breath coming in great tearing gasps. Instinctively Aragorn moved to help but was brought up short by the chains on his wrists.  He raised his head, his eyes piercing those of their tormentors._

_"Do something," he ordered, "Help him!"_

_Such was the tone of unconscious command in Aragorn's voice that for a moment both Corsairs stood still, staring down at him. Then the nearest stooped and with a sneer brought his hand down hard across Aragorn's face._

_"Give orders to us, would you?" he hissed._

_Aragorn scarcely felt the blow. His eyes blazed. "The man's dying - help him!"_

_"Help him?" The other echoed derisively. "That useless lump of lard? It was a mistake to take him in the first place, and the sooner we're rid of him the better." He stepped down casually into the maw of the ship and began unlocking the chains round Harath's wrists and legs._

_Aragorn wrenched desperately at his own chains, even though reason told him he was wasting his time. Denied physical intervention he could only lash the Corsairs with words as between them they lifted Harath's shuddering body and bore it away, the head trailing limply, the skin pale and the eyes filled with a pain and terror that refused to be forgotten._

_They were gone some few minutes, minutes which dragged like years and gave imagination free rein to construct the scene as Harath was disposed of, thrown overboard, of no more consequence to the Corsairs than a piece of garbage._

_And then the sound of returning, swaggering feet, the sight of lips curled into cruel, self-satisfied smiles, and eyes anticipating the pleasures of punishments. And their reprisals were not merely for Aragorn's earlier verbal attack but also for the took he turned on them now, the accusation in his eyes expressing far more than words could ever hope to._

_He suffered in silence; body bent forward, head down, hands clenched. And any tears, any rare tears, were not for pain, not for humiliation nor for captivity, but for the death of a friend and the sudden loss of hope._

_And the knowledge that all that stretched ahead was keeping time to the beat of a drum, chains chafing wrists and ankles, rowing to the point of exhaustion and beyond..._

........

   
Aragorn woke suddenly and lay still, letting the warmth and comfort of the waking wash over him. And then in the dark room, silent save for the splatter of rain outside, he vowed that if the time ever came when he could strike back at the Corsairs his hand would be heavy. Not for injured pride, not even solely to avenge the death of a friend, but for the sake of all those others who had suffered and would continue to suffer as long as the might of the Corsairs remained unchallenged.

When he woke again it was morning and the rain had died with the dawning of day. Kitha had pulled back one of the shutters across the window and a wedge of sunlight glowed on the floor, creeping onto a corner of his bed. Aragorn moved one hand slowly into the light. Such a little thing, a ray of sunlight, but there had been times when he had doubted he would ever feel that warmth again.

Kitha, whose quiet activities at the other end of the room had first wakened him, crossed over now. Her hair was unbound and with sleep so recently swept from her eyes she seemed younger than he remembered from last night. As she came towards him, features still half in shadow, the sunlight burnishing her dark hair, for an instant she reminded him not so much of his mother but of Arwen.  Arwen, of whom in those dark and dreadful days so recently past he'd dared not think lest grief for all he'd left behind should utterly overwhelm him.

"You slept well?" Kitha enquired.

"I did.  And I thank you for all you have done, but I won't put you or your son at risk any longer than necessary. I must leave today."

Kitha shook her head. "I won't allow it," she said simply. "The Corsairs will be seeking you today, and there are many who would turn you over to them for the promise of a silver coin."

"Then all the more reason why I should go. If I was found here -"

"You are safe here. Accept my word for it."

"Why are you willing to help me?" Aragorn asked, "Because of Baranthur?

Kitha shrugged dismissively, but for a moment there was that look in her eyes again. This time he tried to read it - affection, wistfulness, regret, even bitterness. "You are very like him," she said finally.  The implication of the comparison was not entirely welcomed by Aragorn but Kitha did not pursue it. Instead she simply asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, a little." He'd grown so used to the sensation of gnawing hunger that it was almost necessary to re-learn the basic fact that it could be assuaged.

Kitha nodded and turned as Ardamir entered, rubbing his eyes, hair tousled. "I will see to some food, then. If you go in the other room there are some clothes that belonged to Baranthur. You are slightly taller but otherwise I think they will fit well enough. There is also a closet adjoining that room if you need it."

He thanked her again and, folding the blanket round himself, from the bed and did as she requested. She was right about the clothing - he was longer in the leg than Baranthur had been and perhaps of a more slender build, although part of that could be attributed to the meagre diet he'd lately existed on. The breeches hung loosely on his hips and he left the shirt, his back still tender so that covering it would be more of a penance than a pleasure.

Kitha noticed the omission when he returned. She handed him a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of milk, then while he ate and drank she again bathed the wounds.

"They heal well enough," she said, "Keep them clean and when you can bear it, keep them covered. There'll be some scarring but given time that may fade." She was silent a long moment, letting him finish his food, before directing a question at him: "Tell me, how did you manage to escape from the Corsairs? They're not known for their laxity with prisoners."

"Others tried," said Aragorn, "But they had no real chance. I was given one and I took it."

"And what chance was this?"

"When we landed here, a woman came down among us, the captain escorting her. She wanted..." Suitable phrases escaped him and he hesitated.

"I think I can imagine what she wanted," said Kitha, "And put a name to her. Only Deitha of Cimbar would dare walk the decks of a corsair ship. Her appetites are notorious and she has been known to take Corsair offerings in return for certain favours."

"Favours?" Aragorn queried.

"She's said to be a sorceress. She has an evil name in Cimbar, and elsewhere."

Aragorn nodded, half to himself. He had felt a subtle aura of power about her, and been repelled by it. But awareness of her presence had almost compelled him to look up and meet her eyes - dark, fathomless eyes set in a face as pale as ivory, framed by hair the colour of gilt, entwined in pearls. Very fair she had seemed and yet he was sure that the fairness was just a cloak for darkness within. And by then she had been aware of him, perhaps sensing something about him in turn, the hidden heir of kings. It was not a comfortable thought but fortunately it need no longer concern him, as it seemed as if Deitha of Cimbar would be denied the pleasure of his company indefinitely.

"So she selected you," said Kitha, "A dubious honour."

"So I thought. Later that night I was taken off the ship and they sent only one Corsair as escort. When the storm started I jumped him and ran." Quite where he had found the strength to subdue the Corsair, even caught off guard as he had been, Aragorn wasn't sure.  Sheer desperation and sudden hope had been enough, perhaps.

"You were lucky," Kitha stood up,  "And long may your luck continue to hold. Now, have you eaten enough? There is more."

"I've taken sufficient from you already, said Aragorn, "Too much, I fear."

"I'll not go short of food," she said with a shrug.

"Where is your son?"

"He visits a friend in an adjoining street. He was returning yesterday when he found you. You see I expect a visitor today. If you would be safe, Harath, you must stay in Ardamir's room. Keep silent and no one will know that you are there."

"Who is your visitor?"

"That's my business.  Now do as I ask."

Aragorn gave her a sharp, questioning look as he stood up, which she avoided. It was curious that having previously been so forthcoming with information she should now turn reticent. But it was her house, he was indebted to her and he would do as she requested.

This second room, again sparsely but adequately furnished, was still shuttered but the dark was gentle and peaceful.

"Sleep some more, if you can," suggested Kitha. "When you do leave here you will need all your strength. There's not much whichever direction you take from here so you've a long walk ahead of you."

Walk? It was a sea he had to cross but this would hardly be the ideal place in which to seek passage. Even after the Corsairs had left there would still be those around who would remember his escape and be alerted by anyone enquiring about a ship over the sea.

Kitha left and he crossed to the bed and laid down on it, convinced he would not be able to sleep. There was too much running through his mind and, most urgent of all, he must take some thought to the future. At least it looked now as if he'd have one.

Between these islands and the landmass of Middle-earth itself there was little by way of communication. The islands, if they owed loyalties at all, were assumed in thrall to Umbar and the Haradrim, hence the fact that voyagers from Middle-earth itself were rare and knowledge about the islands limited. He would be able to ask Kitha about the country and the people, and perhaps she would also teach him something of the language, but what of the chances of finding a ship willing to take him back? Maybe it would be necessary to work and gain enough money to charter a seaworthy vessel and crew himself, although how he could earn that money was something else he would have to consider.

In spite of himself Aragorn eventually fell asleep but he only became fully conscious of that fact when he was jolted into sudden wakefulness by the sound of voices from the adjoining roan.

One he recognised - Kitha. The other was masculine, unknown. Yet as he listened there was a quality to it that disturbed him; in some strange way it seemed almost familiar.

He continued to listen, unable to make out the words but catching the inflection and trying to interpret it to his own satisfaction.

He detected a new tone in Kitha's voice - a softer, warmer and altogether more vibrant colouring. Once or twice she laughed, and it came to Aragorn suddenly that it was the voice of a woman entertaining someone who was more than mere friend. His memory continued to be teased by her companion's voice; whenever the man spoke his accent and tone wormed with unpleasant familiarity within Aragorn's mind.

It was not his conscious intention to spy, anymore than it had been to eavesdrop, but even so he found himself rising from the bed and going to the connecting door. The wood was old, warped in places so that the planks had eased apart. Still not really considering what he was about, Aragorn selected a gap and looked through.

Kitha's visitor was Corsair.

A tall man, with sunburned skin and brightly coloured clothing - magenta, ochre and crimson, blood red – his face was unknown to Aragorn; this was not one of the crew of the ship where he'd been prisoner. But even so there was about him that same swaggering, self-confident air and familiar arrogant cast to the lips and eyes that simply to see the man brought back instant memories, none of which were welcome or pleasant. And these were the people who had taken Baranthur from Kitha.

And then even as he continued to watch, too disturbed to look away, Kitha let herself be drawn down into the man's arms with a smile and a word of endearment on her lips. They slipped out of sight, the voices continuing for a moment only to be replaced by other sounds, sounds that only the most innocent would fail to recognise for what they were.

Aragorn drew back from the door, for long moments too numb to think clearly. Then reaction set in. He found he was shaking, and didn't know if it was from fear or disgust, or both. He tried to control his thoughts, tried to reason out what he had seen and heard. It wasn't rape, he could see that much. Then why? He considered the idea that Kitha only entertained the Corsair in such manner in order to avert suspicion but quickly dismissed the thought. Her visitor was no chance arrival; he had been expected.

In the room beyond Kitha laughed and the Corsair's deeper voice joined her. What amused them? For a moment it crossed Aragorn' s mind that with this act of love she had betrayed him, but that too made no sense. Why should she do so only now when there had been time enough before?

Reasoning was no help. There were no answers. And he could do nothing but mark time until the Corsair left. He was in no condition to fight, and in any case Kitha had clearly not wanted intervention. To intrude would serve no purpose other than to put both their lives at risk.

Time passed by, seeming interminable, but at last he heard a door open and close in the other room, and then silence. He waited. Seconds later the door to his room opened and Kitha entered. She closed it carefully behind her and faced him. Her colour was high and her eyes glittered as she read his expression and sensed his revulsion.

"What gives you the right to look at me like that?" she asked, her voice very soft.

"Because of what I saw," Aragorn answered, voice equally soft as he tried to keep a check on growing anger. "That man was —"

"Corsair," she finished for him. "Yes. So now you know why they'll not search for you here. As concubine to a Corsair, I am above suspicion."

"So your relationship is long-standing." This time Aragorn didn't even attempt to keep the contempt from his voice. "Have you so short a memory, Kitha? Does it mean nothing to you that the Corsairs took Baranthur?"

"I said so, didn't I?" She laughed then; this time it was a hard mirthless sound. "I lied."

Aragorn stared at her. "I don't understand."

"I lied," she repeated. "You see, the truth didn't paint such a pretty picture."

Suddenly Kitha's eyes lost all their defiance. She crossed to the window, avoiding his gaze now. "Baranthur and I were together eighteen months. We were happy. I was carrying his child. Then he left me. Oh no, he wasn't taken. He went of his own accord to seek his fortune to the north, and he took another woman with him." She turned back. "And what was I to do when my son was born? Tell him that his father had deserted us? That he cared nothing for his child? I found I couldn't do that to him and so... I lied. Men are taken by the Corsairs. It happens from time to time, even here."

"But the people of this place, they must surely know the truth and any one of them may tell your son."

Kitha shook her head. "I met Baranthur in my home village. I came here two years ago and the people know only what I choose to tell them." Her voice was low still, but weary now, as if all spirit had been sapped from her. "Soon after my arrival I attracted the attentions of Ruith. Oh yes, he's Corsair and I know the reputation they have. So they can be cruel, but so can other peoples who give themselves better names and I daresay that even amongst Corsairs there are differences. To me, at least, Ruith is kind. I don't love him but he offers me a kind of security, and that's all I ask for."

"And does Ardamir never question this arrangement with a man of the race who supposedly took his father?" The heat of anger had left Aragorn' s voice now as he questioned her.

"Only once and I was able to put his fears at rest. I told him the men who took Baranthur were evil but that Ruith is a good man. He accepts it, for now." Kitha lifted her head high and stared at him, something of her bravado returning. "So, now you know it all. Do you still care to sit in judgement on me?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I hope I never try to judge again with so little true understanding," he returned quietly. "But there is one thing more that I would know;"

"What more is there to tell?"

"You told me I bore some resemblance to Baranthur but this tale holds no reason why you should feel kindly to him, or to one of his race. So why are you still willing to help and hide me?"

Kitha's eyes were very bright. "I wish I knew," she said, lips twisting into the ghost of a smile. "Maybe in spite of everything he did to me I have never stopped loving him. Maybe I never will."

Aragorn stayed and the days turned into weeks. The Corsair, Ruith, visited Kitha on three more occasions and although Aragorn now accepted the reasons behind his presence he was still uncomfortable about it: it forced him to acknowledge that Kitha was not only friend and benefactor to whom he was indebted, but also woman, and one moreover who saw in him a likeness to the man she admitted she still loved. But Kitha continued to treat him as she had done from the first, as if she was his mother or sister. Only occasionally would he glimpse in her eyes the compound of love and hate, regret and bitterness, and know that it wasn't him she saw but that other who had deserted her.

And while the days passed, Kitha, in response to his request taught him something of the language and history of the Islands. He found the former not so complicated as he had earlier assumed; much of the language stemmed from Adûnaic, he guessed. The Islands had been discovered by the Númenóreans on their great sea voyages, although according to Kitha there was an indigenous population already in existence. The Númenóreans had come in their latter days not as teachers but as masters and they had subjugated the islands. The haven of the sorceress Deitha, Cimbar, lay to the north; Aragorn decided he would go south, following the coastline. The mass of the population had little dealings with the mainland of Middle-earth and what they knew of the lands north of Umbar was drawn from information the Corsairs chose to let slip. None of it showed the north in a very flattering light and the chances of getting anyone to willingly voyage that way looked slender, but Aragorn was not about to abandon hope at this stage. Where there was a will, there must be a way.

He learned much from Kitha, the woman's intuition and intelligence still surprising him from time to time. Of Ardamir he saw little. He suspected that Kitha deliberately engineered this for once the boy's natural reserve had worn off he displayed increasing attachment to Aragorn, eager to fetch and carry or help him learn their language. Ardamir, who had never known a father, seemed on the verge of discovering a substitute. Kitha said nothing but kept him out of the way as much as possible.

And then one day the Corsairs sailed. It had been just over three weeks since Aragorn had escaped them. His injuries had healed over well; he had recovered both lost weight and strength, and learnt more than a smattering of the language of the Islands. Enough, at least, to be able to get along. Kitha nodded when he told her he would leave the next day, agreeing with his intention of heading south.

"It would be best. There are many small villages along the coast where you will be able to find work, and maybe someone with a boat they are willing to risk on the ocean, though most of them are built for fishing in local waters."

"I imagined as much," Aragorn admitted.

"I wish you luck, but if you don't find a way to get back?" Kitha's voice questioned as she moved into the other room.

"I must," Aragorn answered simply as she returned.

"If anyone can find a way, then I believe you will do so. Now, you take the clothes you are wearing, and these as well. And this sword." She handed a neatly wrapped bundle to him. "Baranthur took his best sword with him, but this one is serviceable. No doubt you can use it."

He nodded, taking it from her with thanks, noting that it had been well cared for. Had Kitha hoped that one day Baranthur would return to collect his belongings, and his wife and child?

"And take this pack also," Kitha instructed. "There's some food - enough for several days if you are careful. And a flask of water. There's also a little money, in case work proves harder to come by than you hope. I wouldn't want you to starve after all my hard work."

"I've taken too much from you already - I can't accept money."

Kitha brushed aside his protests. "I can afford to be generous. Ruith always leaves me money. Perhaps he worries that without it I will go hungry, although it's most unlikely. There is always work to be had around here when it is necessary."

 "Corsair gold," said Aragorn thoughtfully, accepting the pack.

 "Does that bother you?"

"On the contrary. I feel it entirely appropriate." He knelt to pack the extra garments into the pack then fastened it onto his back, strapping the sword at his side. Kitha stepped back and took a long look at him, then nodded as if satisfied by what she saw.

"You'll do," she said. "No one would mistake you for anything other than a simple traveller. Speak little until you become more accustomed to our language, and it is unlikely that your identity will be discovered."

"There are no words in either your language or mine to express my gratitude for all that you have done for me."

Kitha shrugged. "None are needed. I don't trust words. Baranthur spoke many, but they meant nothing. I would rather read a man's heart through his eyes, and your eyes are honest. Baranthur never knew the meaning of honesty. You're not really like him, only your colouring and accent, but in you I see what I first thought Baranthur to be. I was wrong then, but not this time. There is truth in you, Harath."

And how aware he was in that moment of the lies, the very necessary lies he had told this woman. "You are more honest than I," he returned obliquely. "And I will still thank you for your care of me. Say goodbye to Ardamir for me."

She nodded, giving him one final long, still look.  "Go safely," she said and, stepping forward, raised one hand to touch his face. He caught the hand, kissed it, held it a moment and then let her go.

The night was fine. Aragorn turned from the barred door of Kitha's home and raised his face to the stars, and as he did so he felt a sudden lifting of his spirits. He might be separated by a sea from all that he most held dear, but he was free.  And one day he would return.  He began to walk, hope keeping pace with him as night faded into day.

   
THE END


End file.
